


Element

by Lemon (lemon_sprinkles)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Competition, Gen, Jousting, Knights - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_sprinkles/pseuds/Lemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under that mild mannered exterior and charm that Loras displays so well, lurks a competitive knight, ready for the hunt and the victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Element

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in the below piece of fiction. George RR Martin does
> 
> Warning: Mentions of violence and sex

 The beat inside his chest would begin as soon as the armour was laid out in front of him. Cold, hard steel—strong and sturdy, a heavy weight in his hands as he picked them up and inspected them, running his palm against the intricately designed vambrace. The bump and slide of the vine and rose design was a reminder of his status and of his name—a Tyrell and a champion, a man worthy enough to wear such a fine piece of craftsmanship. The leather straps would slide through his fingers, smooth and durable, the hide keeping things together, protecting him and keeping him upright and collected. He would take his time looking over every piece before he put it on, centering himself with a simple, menial task, mind clearing and body humming.

 As the armour would be placed on, bit by bit, he’d close his eyes and let the weight wash over him. He’d stand strong, the tugs of the leather straps jostling him slightly as the squires muddled around him, voices soft and calm as the beat increased in tempo deep inside his chest, just as the breastplate was fitted into place. Once it was all on, with only his hands left bare, he’d look at himself in the mirror set up in the corner as his hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a green and gold ribbon tucking the curled strands back—Tyrell and Baratheon colours.

 Stepping out of the tent and into the tournament camp, his heartbeat would quicken more, palms tingling and gate steady as they moved between the crowds of men; knights and squires, gawkers and lords, all attempting to meet and greet, hedge their bets, or ready themselves for the next tilt. He paid most men little mind, his attention fully on the increasing thrum in his veins and the pump of adrenaline through his system. The weight of his armour was solid and comforting, his movements easy in the familiar wear, like a second skin that he’d grown up in. Approaching his horse, he grasped the reigns offered to him, the tough leather and the pull of the charger further drawing him into the moment. Warm breath washed over his face as the dappled stallion nuzzled the side of his head, taking in his scent before lowering its head down. His fingers slid under the band across the nose, rubbing the short hairs and scratching the beast as he rested his forehead against the light white star painted across the fur.

 No one bothered him in that moment, and the calls and conversations, the chanting from the far off stands and the whinny from the other horses all left his frame of mind. He sent out a silent prayer to the gods he wasn’t certain he believed in, asking for a successful ride and protection both for himself and his mount. Pulling away, the sounds came rushing back, and he got up on the mounting block, the squires helping him sit on his saddle, the metal digging into his thighs as he positioned himself carefully. Sitting down, the beast shifted beneath him, acclimatizing to the added weight. The shift and the movements of the horse was as familiar to him as walking, the saddle having been a second home as a child. When he was atop the horse, reigns in hand and looking down at the world below, he felt truly in his element.

 A cloak was fastened to his shoulders, helping to complete his image as the rose embroidery floated down his shoulders and across the rump of his charger. One of the squires stepped in front of his horse and grabbed the reigns from the bottom, tugging the horse along, a quick press of his legs getting the beast moving as they began to move through the crowds towards the arena. The sights and sounds were almost overbearing once they entered the stream of traffic, but he and his mount stayed calm, centered, and focused. Bright banners from great and small Houses alike flew from the tops of tents and flapped beside open tent doors. Men and women selling goods and their own bodies traveled with knights and lords themselves, smiles on some faces, glares on others. The sight of red caught his eye, and he smirked as they passed the prancing lion.

 His opponent’s family flag.

 Before they arrived inside the arena, they stopped just before, the horse shifting around, the loud buzz of the crowd nearby alerting him to where they were going and what they were doing. The beast shared in the enthusiasm of the sport, its feet prancing about excitedly, as eager as its rider to get moving—to charge down the track and slam and maim and _win_. But they couldn’t do that yet, rituals to see to, courtesies to display, and images to play-up.

 He received his gloves, then, the leather supple and strong in his hands as he slipped them on, intensifying his desires and his eagerness to the point in which his horse began to move even more, sensing the emotion of its rider. Tugging gently on the reigns, he stilled both his horse and himself with the sharp motion, and resumed placing the gauntlets on, calmer and more collected.

 Finally, he grasped one last piece of his image—a single white rose—and straightened his back before grabbing hold of the reigns and guiding his horse into the arena. The sound was heightened as soon as they stepped on the soft dirt that protected the horses and the riders. Screams and shouts, the banging of feet on the benches, a few whistles here and there. The roar of the crowd was like nothing else—it seeped into his bones and twisted around his spine, clinging to him, adding lightening hot heat into chest. A sense of urgency overcame him—an intense desire to start overtaking him inside, but outside he stayed calm and collected, a soft smile on his face as he approached a young maid from a lower House.

 She was sweet and mild mannered, and he’d met her before at one of the many events going on. Her father was well liked by his own father, and therefore it was prudent of him to give her a rose—a token of his ‘affection’, as it were. An image and a fabrication of courtly love, but one he saw to diligently, just as he did when he inspected his armour and prayed to the gods for a successful tilt. It was all part of it; it was all a facet of the game he played. The war they fought.

 She smiled and blushed, thanked him with a rushed breath before clutching the rose close, her handmaids smiling brightly. He smiled as well, before kicking his horse forward, ready to move on. As soon as he lifted his head, he caught site of his opponent across the way, approaching the middle of the stands the same time he did. Atop a white horse with his long, white cloak trailing behind, the Lannister looked perfectly confident, head held high, one hand grasping the bridle of his stallion while the other waved at a few women. It was all a front—he knew he was just as ready to charge as he was, anticipation coursing through their veins, barely constrained aggression working its way through their system, worming away inside chest and hearts, desperately trying to break free like some trapped animal. It was in a knight’s blood to attack; to crush their opponent and see them fall, whether from atop a horse or in the middle of a blood drenched battlefield. No matter the place, no matter the occasion, a knight was always ready for that moment when aggression and violence would be the main course of action. Behind courtesy and respect lay a trained killer, and the only ones who forgot that were those who never felt the rush of charging down that track, lance at full tilt and body screaming from the inside to rip and kill and conquer.

 Without at that aggression and without that fire, deadly and all-consuming as it was, a knight would not be successful. A knight wouldn’t be a knight. And he could see that aggression working through the Lannister’s system, right at the corner of his jaw, a clenching as he worked his jaw around, almost as if he were chomping at the bit.

 He wondered, briefly, if he had any tell-tale ticks—any notion that he wasn’t the perfect Tyrell with the smiles and grace and the gentle soul. That he was just as ready for that kill and that victory. That inside him was a man trained and raised to kill, plain and simple. The question faded as quickly as it came, and he smirked at the man across from him before they both turned to the crowd. The king sat atop a plump chair, fingers grasping a horn of ale. They bowed then, both moving at the same time, lowering and rising, before their gazes flicked away, going to opposite corners. His eyes met with a dark haired man, brilliant blue eyes alight with excitement. He shared his passion for a moment, keeping their gazes locked before kicking his horse off to the other side of the field. His stallion took off right away, loping down the field, its gate heavy, and with each pound of its step and rise of its backside, he could feel his excitement elevating to an almost maddening level.

 The vibrations from the crowd seeped into his bones as he arrived at the end, horse facing the opposite way, preventing it from feeling it was time to go. His helmet was passed up to him, and he slipped up and on. Wearing that helmet, the heavy weight of the metal boring down on your head and neck, was something else entirely. It closed the warrior off from most sights and sounds, the narrow slits offering a small view before him. When he slipped it on for the first time he was startled at how loud everything became and how disoriented he felt, as if he could no longer fully grasp his surroundings, metal the only smell, his heavy breathing and the yelling around him ringing in his ears. But now the helmet was like a trigger. When the visor was down and the straps were pulled snug, everything shut off.

 The sound of the crowd left, the smell of metal relaxed him, and the narrow view focused his sights. As the lance was placed in his hand, he felt more alive than he’d ever felt in his life. All he could feel was the shift of the beast beneath him, their energies in sync as they slowly moved around the bend of the fence and faced the proper way.

 And then a calm settled over him. It lasted only a brief moment, but it was there—like a subtle shift in his senses. All he could hear was the slow inhale and exhale of his breath, puffs of condensation clinging to the metal before his mouth. All he could see was the long, narrow track, no people or faces, just the target. And all he could feel was the curling of anticipation in his gut and loins, and the deep, heavy pump of his heart, the pace increasing with each breath he took.

 And then the peace was broken, the fury had ignited, and the horse was moving. Fast, powerful limbs broke out underneath him, and he centered himself on the beast as they moved faster and faster, his lance tilting downwards before sliding out in front and a little to the left, heavy and solid and real in his grip. He couldn’t hear anything except for the blood rushing through his ears and the almost manic beat of his heart, each footfall of the horse driving him further and further into a maddening lust for destruction and victory.

 His eyes focused in on the lion on the shield, unmarred and perfectly centered, and he positioned his lance, muscles moving almost on their own accord, memory infused in his limbs as to where to hit and how to hit, his mind free to think about the need to win. When the lance contacted the lion straight on, he felt as if he’d collided with the horse itself, powerful muscles ripping right through him as the wood splintered and flew about, a heavy crack and the sound of metal against wood the only sound he could hear. Tossing his lance away as soon as it had broken, he listened for that sound—and heard it through the screams. The sound of metal hitting dirt.

 It was then that he felt the pain in his shoulder and the screaming of his neck as the realization that he’d been hit reverberated through his system, adrenaline still pumping through, adding to the intensity of the throbbing pain as it snaked through him. It only fueled the fire inside him, and he rode the horse to the end, squires reaching out to stop the beast as he flipped up his visor and looked over his shoulder.

 The Lannister was in the dirt, squires helping him up as bystanders looked on, most of their attention on the knight at the end of the field, a brilliant, almost feral grin on his youthful face as he stared at his victory. The boiling of his blood was subsiding, the excitement leaving him for a moment, and he turned back around and ripped one of his gloves off, patting his steed on the neck. He could feel the power beneath him wanting to go again, but he rubbed behind its ear, soothing it. They were done, and it was time to put away the killer for another day. It was time to act according to proper protocol and pretend to be a man rather than a brute hidden behind a suit of armour and a young man’s charming tongue.

 But the feeling of the hunt and the rush from the defeat he handed to his opponent did not leave him until he’d met with the raven haired man from the stands, another game of animal instinct the only way he could calm himself down; the only way to sooth the maddening desires inside him and compose him enough to fill the role society wanted him to fit.

 And in the morning, when his muscles had relaxed, his needs had been satisfied and his lover had left before anyone could recognize him, he’d wake and repeat the process again for another day, until the tournament was done and all of the treasures had been claimed. He’d then hang up the beautiful armour for another month, perhaps longer, along with the mask of the killer, and wait to dress in them once more, immersed in his element.


End file.
